Mercenary Values
by Stefbug
Summary: You can only deal with a psychopathic boss for so long, and Birdie's had enough. So she heads to the Tar Pit, a mercenary bar that lives up to its reputation, not expecting a run in with a sympathetic blonde in the form of Belladonna Boudreaux.


Disclaimer: I don't own them, Marvel does and I make no claim to them. Although I'd love to rescue them both from death/insanity. This is entirely for my own enjoyment and not for profit. 

Rating: Soft R  
Warning: Femslash, fluff, sexual content

Authors Note: They just popped into my head on the walk back from work, and how was I supposed to deny them. Now that it's out of my head I can go back to my fics for the Barely Legal challenge.

Enjoy

Mercenary Values

The Tar Pit. The name makes me smile and distracts me from the fact that I was more tempted to put a bullet in the taxi driver's head than pay him. There's nothing quite like having some ugly s.o.b ogle you for the whole journey, when all you want to do is have a quiet ride, to piss a girl off something wicked. His comment about a 'pretty girl like you' and the area we are in is almost the last straw. Still I let him go. He just isn't worth the mess.

Instead I head for the entrance, an unobtrusive little side door in the abandoned looking warehouse, smiling a little at the small brass plaque screwed to the wall outside it. Sure, it gives the bar's name, but underneath someone who is either real brave or real stupid has scratched "b.y.o.b (bring your own body)". It looks recent too, and I'm guessing the owner doesn't know about it yet, or there'd be a hell of a lot more mess out here.

A quick knock and the door creaks open to reveal two guys that I can tell are packing more than just muscles. Not that they look like some muscle-bound jerks or anything, in fact, if it wasn't that Mr Creed would skin me when I got back, I'd be tempted to see if either of them were willing to indulge me. Fact is though that Mr Creed wouldn't hesitate to hurt me for 'cheating' on him, even if he can fuck anything that has a pulse.

So maybe I'm a little pissy when the shorter of the two psi-scans me, so shoot me. I've spent the whole day on a privet jet with one of the world's foremost psychopaths, trying to make small talk that isn't going to get me hurt, maimed, or killed and to add insult to injury he ripped my favourite damn shirt when we got to his place. So I'm on edge, especially given the whammy I had to hit Mr Creed with to get him to pass out this time, and my defences are set to auto-maim anyone that's trying to get in my head. At least I apologise.

Still, I get let in, and the smell of warm, slightly stale alcohol and the heat of more people than should be legal hits me like a wave. They don't ask me to check my gear, they never do, but then it's understood that you don't cause trouble in the Tar Pit. The owner used to be one of the best cleaners in the biz, and there's a reason it's called the Tar Pit. Besides, you don't piss off the man who knows where all the skeletons are buried. It just isn't done.

Slipping my coat off, glad for once that I don't have to worry about flashing the surrounding people, I head for the bar. The conversation stills a little as I walk in, I know that they're anticipating Mr Creed following me, as he usually is, and I take the opportunity to case the place quickly. I see several familiar faces in the crowd and greet them appropriately, if a little shortly. I'm not in the mood to schmooze tonight. Hell, I'm not in the mood to do anything but drink.

It doesn't take long for the noise to pick back up when they realise that I'm alone. I note the absence of music, and a quick glance at the jukebox confirms that it's still broken. Looks like it's still the same damage that put it out of commission last time, namely Mr Creed's claws and Deadpool's head, and I vaguely wonder if they'll ever get it fixed. That damn thing's caused more than one fight.

Speaking of Deadpool, I hear him as I get to the bar, even if I can't see him to start with. It's hard to miss the 'Merc with a Mouth' even at the best of times, and this certainly ain't one of those. He's propping up the bar at one end, seemingly in conversation with himself, although he keeps making random comments to thin air or maybe anyone in the same breathing space as him. He's cleaning off one of his swords, leaving brass scrapings all over the place, and it's easy enough to tell that it's his graffiti outside, as well as answering the brave vs. stupid question for me. Making a mental note to avoid eye contact I order my drink. "Beer, with a tequila chase please."

The bar boy goes straight to it. He looks a little young to be working here, but then you never can tell. My eye drifts from his ass, beautifully encased in tight denim, to the sign above the bar and I almost choke. That's been updated since Mr Creed last dragged me in here. It reads, printed out in big black letters:

"No kids.

No pets.

No business. (Unless I get a cut.)"

And underneath it, painted carefully in red is:

"And no damn discounts."

I snort. Who'd have thought that someone'd be dumb enough to ask for a discount in here? I wonder whose blood the sign is in, although I find myself not giving a damn as my drink is placed in front of me. Downing the tequila in one I lean in to the boy, shouting a little to be heard, and damn glad that the bar isn't as sticky as normal. I've already got one ruined shirt today, and that's one more than I'm happy with. "This is on Mr Creed's tab, you hear?"

He nods, and makes a note in a ledger kept well away from prying hands. I wouldn't normally, it's not like I don't have my own cash, but he damaged my shirt and he can damn well pay for it. Grabbing my beer I turn, intent on finding somewhere to sit. These boots may be comfortable, but I like to sit when I'm intent on making a night of it. Less distance to fall that way. Not that I'd get that drunk, but it's the principle that counts.

I scan the place, desperately hoping to find a spare seat with someone I can at least stand to be around and knows how to take 'fuck off' as an answer. Most of the bar is a lost cause. I'm not in the mood to listen to more macho, chauvinistic crap. If I'd wanted that I'd have stayed with Mr Creed. So I try and find a spot with a high concentration of female mercs.

Now female mercs come in three flavours; companion, competition or creepy, and most of the ones that I'm seeing fit into one of the latter categories. There is one spot free, with a single chair waiting to be filled, and I don't recognise the woman sitting in the other across the table. That in itself is unusual, normally chairs don't last 30 seconds without someone's ass filling them, but this one seems to have everyone avoiding it. 'What the hell, I may as well give it a go', I think to myself, taking another hit of beer to get myself some balls before I go over there.

As I get closer I surreptitiously eye the chair up, wondering if it's one of the ones that tend to fall apart with the slightest tap and that's why it's empty. Given the mismatched furniture in here I wouldn't be surprised. Can't see anything wrong with it though, and I wonder if it's something to do with the blonde in the other chair. She doesn't look too bad. Dangerous sure, but who in here isn't, and it's in that lithe, firm, muscular way that I've always appreciated. Nothing obvious screams 'I'm a psycho' to me, though I don't dare psi-scan her, but she's giving off some of those 'I'm far too calm and relaxed' vibes.

This, given the fact that I'm a regular and don't recognise her and the fact that she's got her back to the door, stops me wondering why the damn seat isn't filled. She's ranking high on my dangerous-shit-o-meter, and apparently everyone else's as well. Oh well, once again it's down to me to prove that I've got bigger balls than any of the men in here, including Deadpool.

"This seat taken?" She looks up at me and away from her glass, surprise causing her eyes to widen slightly. She wasn't expecting company, that's for sure. I catch myself as I stare, after all it isn't every day that you see violet eyes, and gesture with my own drink to the free chair. She shakes herself slightly and then laughs, equal parts lust for life and threat of danger.

"Sure, sit y'self down chere," she says, smiling at me. I'm praying that I've actually got a nice one here, and not some psychopath who likes to play friendly. That'd be just my luck. It's a nice accent though, Cajun if I'm not mistaken, and I ask as much as I sit. "That goin' t' be a problem?" The smile is gone, disappeared inside a sharp frown that just promises trouble if I want it.

"Hell no. Just checking that I know my geography is all. No offence meant." The smile returns, and I congratulate myself on my people management skills.Maybe all the time with Mr Creed has taught me something useful, like how not to get myself in shit I can't get out of. "Name's Birdie," I say, setting my beer down on the small table and offering her a hand.

When she takes it, after a second's hesitation, hers is warm to the point of being hot and clearly callused in all the places that tell me she's a blade person. "Belladonna Boudreaux at y' service," she grins, and I try not to show my shock. This is Belladonna Boudreaux, heir apparent of the New Orleans Assassins Guild and one of the most dangerous people alive. I'm really not surprised the chair was empty now, but the cocky part of my mind is saying that I'd thought she would have been butcher. And taller. And anything but a blonde.

"Nice to meet ya Belladonna," I shake the hand in mine firmly, telling my mind to shut up with its babble of 'you're out of your league' and let me get on with things. It obliges and in celebration I take another slug of my beer with my now freed hand.

"Please, call me Belle. Only mon Pere an' my enemies call me dat these days." Her smile is slightly strained, I can tell that there are other things on her mind, and I'm glad when she moves her gaze from me to go back to her drink. Those eyes of hers are intense. "So, Birdie, interestin' name?"

The question behind the question is plain and simple, 'I haven't heard of you, should I have?' and I figure I may as well answer honestly. "It's one my employer sort of gave me. I'm the bird to his cat." She lifts a delicate eyebrow in enquiry and I continue. It's not like its not public knowledge anyway. "Mr Creed's sense of humour is like that." I turn away slightly and gesture for the waitress to bring me another round as I finish my beer.

She gives another of those laughs that judders along my spine like nails. "Y' work f' Sabretooth? No wonder y' here drinkin' chere, I've heard dat man is hell t' work wit'" She finishes her own drink and echoes my gesture with her glass. I can smell the spices of the bourbon from here, and I find myself wondering how well she can hold her drink.

"Like you wouldn't believe." I give her a wry grin, then grab the new drink that the waitress has just placed in front of me, downing the tequila and relishing its burn for a second before continuing. "How 'bout you, why're you here? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Why else. Man trouble chere, it's what drives us all t' drink." She knocks back the bourbon in one and gestures for another. This time the waitress brings the bottle and half slams it on the table, muttering something under her breath about 'psychotic Cajun alcoholics' before flouncing off. Girl just stopped herself getting any sort of tip, that's for sure.

"Amen to that." I clink my bottle against her glass and savour the cool beer inside. "You wanna talk about it? After all, I've got the best sympathetic ear for man troubles." I smile at her, liking the way her eyes shine in the dull light of the bar, a spot of rare bright colour in a place with far too much darkness. Or maybe that's just the alcohol buzz talking.

Surprisingly she does, and over the course of half a bottle of bourbon for her, and another 3 rounds for me, she tells me about her jerk of a husband and her bastard of a dead brother. In return I tell her about the psycho I lovingly call 'boss'. We share horror stories, and somehow the topic of conversation winds its way towards battle scars.

We compare our scars, much like men in the john compare their brains. Her best is the set of scars that wrap across her left hand and up her wrist, almost to her elbow, varying in depth and size. They look like they came from a frenzied wolf, and I'm betting they were defensive scars. Some of the deepest ones cut across tendon and muscle, and I'm damn surprised that her hand is still functional. When I say as much, she just gives me that shit-eating grin and says, "Sometimes, interferin' ol' women can come in useful, chere."

My best however is a different matter, and I start to get a little embarrassed about showing them. "Thing is Bel," I say, when she asks me what's wrong, "that I'm going to have to flash this whole damn place if I want to show you, and there's no way in hell that I'm giving them a free show." I wouldn't mind if we were in private, but I've never been an exhibitionist.

Luckily I'm saved from her comment by a fight breaking out over by the bar. As one we both turn to watch it, alcohol haze dissipating slightly with adrenalin reflexes, and I find myself unsurprised to find Deadpool at the centre of the disturbance. That man has a serious death wish sometimes, especially to fuck around in a place like this, but I guess he can be fun to watch. Especially as it's some trumped up dealer and his 'posse' that he's messing with.

It's not a long fight, they never are in here, but there's blood soaking into the sawdust when they're finished, and both parties are being politely escorted out by the bouncers. Deadpool will get back in, he always does, but I doubt that dealer will be around for much longer. Stupid bastard pulled a knife. Turning to look at Bel, I see her blood's been raised as much as mine by the scuffle. Downing the last of my beer I decide to be daring.

"We can go somewhere more private if you still want to see my scars," I smile at her, hoping that she's as sick of drinking and as sick of men as I am. Sometimes it's nice just to relax with someone that isn't trying to prove anything, and since she falls well and truly into the 'companion' category, I hope that I can do that with her. Her nod and that wicked grin tell me all I need to know, and we both head towards the exit, coats in hand.

"My hotel's just down de road chere, 's not far at all" she murmurs as she stumbles ever so slightly when we get out into the fresh air. It's nice to hear her clearly, without the noise of the bar muffling her voice, and when she straightens I take back my earlier statement about her not being as tall as I thought she should be. She is. Tall and lean and oh so fuckable, more so because of the danger she gives off.

We weave down the roads, ignoring the hoots and catcalls from the drunks and addicts that cover this area. If anyone of them tried to start shit they'd be dealing with a highly trained and extremely dangerous pair of 'victims'. The thought of them actually daring to do something has me chuckling to myself on and off until we reach Bel's hotel. Oh boy is it a nice hotel, at least 4 stars that I can tell, and I've stayed in a lot of nice hotels.

The staff don't even blink as we clatter in to the lobby, both laughing since I shared my joke at Bel's insistence, and make our way to the elevator. She pushes the button for the penthouse and then leans in to me, pressing me against the side of the elevator, breath warm on my neck. "Y' want more'n just t' show y'r scars, don't y' chere?" Her accent is thicker and her voice makes me shiver slightly. I'm supposed to be the psychic one, but somehow she seems to know exactly what I'm thinking.

I nod and sigh as she kisses my neck lightly, jumping slightly as the elevator jolts to a stop and the doors open to reveal an old, rich couple. She turns to look at them, and I have no idea what that look says but it leaves them flustered, the husband stuttering out "We'll wait for the next one," as the doors close. I can't help but laugh, a sound that chokes in my throat as she turns that look on me, all promise of things to come plain on her face.

We make it to the penthouse undisturbed and I'm getting hot from the multitude of little kisses she is peppering my neck and mouth with. She's a fantastic kisser, and her mouth tastes of spice and alcohol when I explore it a little with my tongue. Laughing like schoolgirls we practically fall in the door, although I pause just slightly as the sight of the penthouse itself. Don't get me wrong, I've seen them all before, but it doesn't stop this one from being impressive, all crystal and marble and glass. "Chere," Bel's voice brings my attention back to what's important, and I move towards her, closing the door behind me with a click. "One thing before we start. What's your real name?"

Part of me isn't sure that I want to answer that, after all I'm known as Birdie in all of the circles she'd likely be part of. On the other hand, it would be nice to have someone know who the woman behind the merc is. Biting the bullet I come to a decision. "Elisabeth Nightingale," I tell her, delighted by her smile.

"So Birdie really does fit, chere." I laugh and draw her into another kiss, delighted to feel her arms wrap around me and her hands rest on my waist. She makes me hungry for more, and I deepen the kiss from passionate to downright pornographic before she pulls away slightly. Her breath is coming in short, sharp pants, but she still manages to get out "So, scars den chere?"

I pull away with a smile and add my shirt to this discarded pile of coats that we dumped on the floor moments ago. That leaves me in just my bra and jeans, and I watch as her eyes narrow with interest instead of disgust. I know what she's seeing. Five puncture marks around my heart, ripping away into jagged claw marks that stop, suddenly, as if whatever caused them jerked away. "My first meeting with Mr Creed," I say, shuddering slightly at the memory.

She tugs me close and leans down. I'm expecting her to go for a nipple, through the fabric of my bra, but instead her tongue runs along the deepest scar, tenderly licking it. It takes me by surprise, to say the least. What takes me even more by surprise is when she moves back up, licking her way up my neck again, and whispers in my ear "Let's take dis slow chere, we' got all night t' enjoy ourselves."

Taking things slow? That's something I haven't experienced in a while, and I nod, struck dumb. She slips her own top off, revealing more pale and scarred flesh, and pulls me in close, her skin almost blisteringly hot against mine, her hands going to work running over my back and her mouth meeting mine again. I'm not sure how long we stay like that, just kissing, but eventually we move away from each other, lips slightly swollen from the kisses and thirsting for more.

It's easy enough to strip in front of her. I gave up being body conscious the first time I got injured in the field, and that was years ago. She appears to have the same feelings as me because before long we're both naked and sat on the plush bed, kissing again. My hands start to wander about the same time hers do and for the longest time we just explore each other with hands, followed by mouths, followed by tongues and fingers. She's a work of art, all soft lines and firm curves wrapped in a shell that thrums with potential violence.

"You're beautiful," I manage to gasp out at one point while we are still exploring, and I mean every syllable. She laughs, this time the sound going straight to my groin, and pulls me in for another kiss, effectively silencing anything else I would have said.

Sooner or later we end up lying on the bed and I'm underneath her, pinned slightly by her weight and muscle. I'm wound so tight that I'm practically vibrating and almost all conscious thought has deserted me. All I can think is how much I want her to touch me, how hot and sweet those kisses are, how each time she caresses a nipple or a scar it sends waves of electricity to my groin and how much I want her. "Please, Bel, please, I want you to…"

Her hand slips between my legs and I gasp, words forgotten, and brain on overdrive. I'm so fucking sensitive from all of the build up and the frustration and the months that it's been since I've had anyone care about me that her touch is almost painful. I'd tell her but all I can manage is whimper, caught in the pleasure/pain cycle.

"Dat good chere?" Her voice, husky and deep, caresses my ear in a breath and I start to babble, to beg her to keep going. It feels so good. I almost want to scream when she moves her fingers away from my clit, and I do a little as one slides into me, having no trouble given how wet I am right now. A second soon joins it and I mewl as they begin to move, her weight still keeping me from struggling too much. The final straw is when her thumb brushes over my clit in time to her strokes, and I come so hard that I swear I see the black spots appear in my vision.

I lay there, panting hard to get my breath back, aftershocks rippling through me as she strokes my arm from where she's now at my side. I can tell she's as wound up as I was, and once I've sufficiently caught my breath I roll to face her properly, moving her onto her back with one hand while the other goes back to the breast that I was neglecting while she brought me off.

I wiggle down the bed once I've got her gasping again, and push her legs open, revelling at the fact that she's not one of those that believes a porn star wax job is the only way to be feminine. Instead she's neatly trimmed and almost dripping with excitement, a beautiful site to behold. I gently kiss and nibble my way up her legs and then go to work, holding her open slightly so that I can get to her clit without problem.

She nearly throws herself off the bed the first time my tongue makes contact, and I shift so that I'm holding her down with one hand while holding her open with the other. She starts to babble in a mishmash of English and French as I continue, spasming slightly as her orgasm starts to build. When it finally breaks she damn near crushes my skull, but I keep going despite that and the lack of oxygen from her iron tight grip of my hair, only letting up when she nearly begs me to stop, gasping my real name.

She pulls me up to meet her and kisses me again, apparently happy to taste herself in the kiss, before pulling the covers up from where we'd kicked them off the bed. I'll admit I'm feeling tired, given the stress, the alcohol and one of the best orgasms I've had, and the lid to her eyes tells me I'm not the only one feeling that way. I'm vaguely surprised when her arms wrap around me in a not too tight cuddle, but that soon disappears as I drift into sleep.

I'm woken the next morning by the sound of my cell screaming at me. Dislodging myself from Bel's arms I practically fall out of the bed and crawl to my discarded pants, eventually hauling the fucking thing out. I'm only half serious when I consider throwing the cell across the room or out the window, but I bite my lip and answer the damn thing.

"Birdie, where in the fuck are ya?" Only one person has that all encompassing rancid temperament this early in the morning, and he's the only one who'd have this number anyway.

"Staying at a friend's Mr Creed," I say, hoping that he hasn't slipped too far back into the rage and bloodlust in the twelve hours I've been gone from his side. "I lost track of time last night and it was too late for me to get back." Fingers crossed he's going to buy it.

"Sure," it comes out as almost a growl, but it's still recognizable as a word which is as least something. "Get yer ass back here asap. I've got us a little job to do, one that comes with so many perks it ain't funny. An' it's local too." He sounds smug, and I find myself cursing him for having found us a job so soon. I was really looking forward to some down time.

"Sure thing boss, I'll be back in the next couple of hours." I hang up on him, not caring that he's probably going to be pissed and unwilling to let him spoil my good mood any longer. I turn to look over my shoulder, where an alert Belladonna is peering over the edge of the bed.

"Real life callin' so soon chere?" She doesn't look surprised though, even as she says it. We both know what this life entails, and I'm guessing that we both always have. I shrug and crawl back into the bed, thankful that I've got enough of a tolerance to alcohol that I'm not dying of a hangover this morning. She wraps me up again and I find myself relaxing.

"Yeah. Mr Creed's got us a job, already," her grimace echoes my own. Down time is a highly prized commodity, "but I don't need to leave for at least another hour." I give her a smile, letting her know that I fully intend to use that hour to soak up as many cuddles as I can if nothing else. "What're you going to do?" The 'after I'm gone' goes unspoken by both of us. We've got an hour, and I'm not going to spoil that.

"Visit my husband, since of all t'ings I need his help." She sighs, wrapping her arms tighter round me and nuzzling my neck. "It's been good chere. I jus' wish it could've lasted longer."

"Me too," I nuzzle back. "But I guess you've just got to go with what you're given." I roll over and kiss her. We've got an hour after all, and I've decided that I'm fully going to enjoy that time. We both are.


End file.
